The mausoleum loomed like a shadow cut from stone; outlined in sickly pallid moonlight, its crumbling gothic obsidian spires reaching into the blackened sky. Fog; cold, oppressive, clung to the ridge like ghostly fingers, pooling around the wide cracked steps that led to the arched iron doors. The fog muted the world, dampening sound and swallowing movement until it felt as though the mausoleum stood alone in an endless void. It reached twenty feet high at the peaks of its spires, while the crumbling domed roof reached a little over ten feet. Slimy black-green creeping vines engulfed every crack and fractured gap in the stonework, covering up ancient ornate, beautiful carvings. The family name of whomsoever built the mausoleum in ages past, carved into iron over the door, writ in a language long forgotten, was so rusted and grimy as to be illegible anyway.
Vanity approached cautiously, her boots crunching on the gravel-strewn path. The cold air bit at her skin, the faint scent of mildew and decay filling her nostrils. Her piercing violet eyes scanned the building, noting the crumbling gargoyles perched along the roofline; intricately carved, now decaying statues of creatures unlike any she'd seen in her life or even read mentioned in books; obscene chimera, cloven hooved spider bodied demons with ugly, massive sexual appendages, six, eight breasts, multiple mouths; fatted toad-like creatures with lupine legs, huge spiked cocks and werejackal heads. Each chimera gargoyle more horrid than the last, their grotesque semi-human faces twisted into snarls that seemed to watch her every step as they cavorted in a static orgy of still-life horror.
The rusted iron lattice doors stood slightly ajar, hanging off a hinge on one side; their once-ornate carvings corroded by time and streaked with oxidised red. She placed a gloved hand on the edge of one, pushing it open with a metallic groan that echoed into the darkness beyond like the last wail of a dying man.
Inside, the mausoleum was vast and chilling. The stone walls were lined with alcoves, each containing ancient urns and carvings worn smooth by the passage of centuries. Shafts of moonlight pierced through cracks in the high domed ceiling, casting fractured beams of pale light that barely penetrated the swirling fog. From the main chamber, multiple smaller antechambers led off into shadow, each barely illuminated by the pale moons light, cracked and overgrown. Two staircases led down into immutable darkness, presumably, Vanity thought, the most ancient crypts. The cracked flagstone floor was littered with detritus; shattered remnants of ancient pottery, rubble, dust, those slimy black vines, bat guano.
The silence was suffocating, pressing in on her like a living thing. Every sound she made, her boots scuffing against the stone, her breath hitching in her throat, seemed muted, dulled by the fog which rolled at her feet. She adjusted her grip on her pistol, the oiled barrels gleaming faintly as she crossed the threshold and descended into the mausoleum's main chamber.
Then she saw them.
Five bodies lay scattered across the cold stone floor, their limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Each was dressed in expensive dark blue and grey uniforms of hardened leather and banded steel; mercenaries, probably Blackwood's men who had failed to return. Vanity paused, her gaze narrowing as she took in the scene. Shit, she was impressed they had made it this far. She expected to see the telltale signs of vampires: drained corpses, pale and shriveled, or the shredded carnage left by werewolves. But the truth was something else entirely.
Four of the corpses had a neat, clean hole drilled through their skulls. Blood had pooled around their heads, stark, congealed and dark against the grey flagstone, and spent casings glimmered faintly in the moonlight. One had been shot directly through her left eye, the precision chilling in its cold efficiency. Two of the corpses still had their weapons holstered, heavy pistols by the looks of it, and hunting knives still in sheaths. One corpse held their very expensive looking, very powerful pistol in their dead hand; Vanity could tell just by looking that they hadn't gotten so much as a single round off. Two coach guns- sawn off double barrel shotguns - were scattered on the flagstones, equally unused. Whoever, whatever, had killed these mercenaries had done so with frightening speed and efficiency.
Vanity stopped beside one of the bodies, her violet eyes scanning the details; the only corpse not shot in the head. His chest bore a single wound, centre mass. A well-crafted vest of hardened leather and layered metal banding, designed to stop bullet and blade alike, had been punctured like tissue paper.
"What the fuck happened here?" she muttered to herself. Her gaze flicked over the other bodies. They were all the same; mercilessly efficient kills, clean and deliberate. The stench of death was thick, coppery and foul. Her violet eyes flicked between the bullet casings scattered on the ground, the sheathed weapons... This was an execution. She had been prepared for carnage, but not like this.
She crouched and pulled the pistol from the corpses holster and examined it; a well smithed, extremely expensive, double chamber twelve shooter, heavy gauge. In well-trained hands, the kinda weapon that could kill a score of motherfuckers easy as slapping gnats, without even needing to stop to reload. And it was useless. Even if the unfortunate bled-out sonofabitch she crouched beside had drawn in time, a quick examination showed no ritual sigils on the weapon, and two chambers filled with mundane bullets. Not silver, not cold iron. If they'd come up against a werewolf or a Vampire, they'd have been as well tossing pebbles at them.
"Fuckin' amateurs," Vanity whispered. She checked the man's neck. He at least had the presence of mind to wear a Holy Symbol of the Divine Radiance, for all the good it did him. She wrapped the leather strap around her hand and pulled, snapping the symbol off. As it came free in her hand, the corpse let out a gurgling, coughing wheeze, his head lolling slowly to the side. Mother Fucking Night, he was alive.
The man's punctured chest rose and fell in faint, shallow gasps, his lips trembling as he sucked in air through bloody teeth. He was older, his face creased and gaunt, a well sculpted salt and pepper beard flecked with blood and dirt. His eyes were open now, bloodshot, wild, darting between her face and the shadows that surrounded them. His uniform and armor were soaked through with blood and sweat, and a darker stain spread across his pants where he'd pissed himself.
"Easy there partner, easy," Vanity whispered, checking his pulse in his neck; faint, barely tangible, but it was there. "What the fuck happened here?"
His mouth opened, blood bubbling at the corners of his cracked lips as he struggled to speak. He raised a trembling hand, his fingers twitching as if to reach for her, but the words came out in a frantic, broken, hoarse whisper.
"Run," he rasped, his voice cracked and desperate. "He's... He's still - "
The bark of a gunshot tore through the air, deafening in the enclosed space. Vanity jerked back instinctively as the man's head snapped violently to the side. Blood sprayed across her face, hot and wet, as the back of his skull burst open, splattering the stone behind him. His body went sharply limp, his trembling hand falling to the flagstones with a lifeless thud.
The sound of the shot echoed endlessly, reverberating through the chamber like a scream. Vanity didn't move, stayed crouched; her breath caught in her throat as she slowly wiped her face with the sleeve of her duster. Her violet eyes scanned the shadows, her pistol raised, her heart pounding against her ribs. Nothing. No sound, no scent, no feeling of anyone in the mausoleum with her. What the fuck. The silence returned, thicker than before, oppressive and suffocating.
Then, chasm-deep, like a whisper carried on the breath of a corpse, the voice came from the shadow of one of the antechambers.
"Well now," it drawled, low and hollow, filled with an eerie weight that seemed to press against her skin. "Ain't you just a sight for dead eyes."
The voice crawled through the air like a curse, rattling in her chest. Vanity's hand tightened on her pistol, body tensed and ready to roll, her violet eyes narrowing and every sense on fire.
The figure emerged from the shadows, his polished pointed-toe boots tapping softly against the stone. He was tall and impossibly lean, his frame cutting an angular nightmare silhouette against the pale beams of moonlight. His duster swirled around him like smoke, the fine black fabric lined with subtle embroidery that shimmered faintly in the gloom. His wide-brimmed hat cast deep shadows over his face, but the flickering blue flames that burned within his hollow eye sockets illuminated his gaunt undead features.
His skin was pale and stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, his lips thin and bloodless, curling into a faint, humorless rictus smirk. In his gloved hand, he held an enormous seven shooter revolver; a monstrous thing of black iron; its barrel long and ornate, the arcane engravings along its surface twisting jnto vines and skulls.
Vanity's mouth twitched as she straightened, her pistol levelled at the creature's chest. The flickering flames in his eyes danced erratically, casting eerie shadows that shifted and crawled across his face.
"Zoran the Damned, I presume," she said, her voice sharp and steady despite the chill clawing at her spine.
The smirk widened, revealing teeth too perfect for his corpse-like face. He tipped his hat with his free hand, the motion deliberate, mocking.
"That depends," he said, his voice dripping with amusement, each word hollow and ethereal. "On who's askin'."
